


Harry Potter and the Scarred Wrists

by Khashana



Series: The Scars Trilogy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco isn't a potions genius, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Romance, canon-compliant slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khashana/pseuds/Khashana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry comes to understand Draco in 5th year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Scarred Wrists

The first time Draco Malfoy smiled at Harry, his stomach turned over.  
The blonde had been taunting him as usual; later, Harry wouldn’t even be able to remember about what. Then Ron added insult to injury by accidentally backing up Malfoy’s remarks concerning his intelligence. Malfoy’s smirk became a smile, a wicked smile, but one of genuine mirth, and he turned it on Harry, as though making sure he knew what a fool Ron had made of himself. Harry’s stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard. Malfoy’s smile faltered. Harry had a horrible feeling that Malfoy knew just what was going on in his abdomen, and pulled Ron away as quickly as he could.  
Back in the common room, Ron stopped ranting about Malfoy long enough to say, “Whatsa matter with you? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”  
“It’s nothing,” said Harry, standing. “I’m going to bed.”  
He lay in his four-poster, staring at the ceiling, and wondered why, why he had reacted so strongly, and why he still couldn’t put it out of his mind.  
The next morning, Harry made a resolution that he would not think of Malfoy at all that day. It wasn’t a day that they shared any classes, so as long as they didn’t run into each other in the corridors, they’d be okay. For the whole day, every time he sensed blonde hair, grey eyes, or a smirking grin about to intrude on his thoughts, he pushed it away determinedly, forcing himself to pay attention in History of Magic for once. (Hermione kept shooting him looks that suggested she was unsure whether to approve or worry. Ron didn’t notice, as he’d fallen asleep within minutes.) He kept up an animated discussion about Quidditch at dinner, careful to keep the focus on their upcoming match with Hufflepuff. Not once did he glance at the Slytherin table.  
But then, he went to bed, and he dreamed. He dreamed of blonde hair and grey eyes and a snarky smile. He dreamed of chasing them, all over Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley and even Surrey, always just out of reach, until finally, he cornered Draco Malfoy in the boys’ dormitory. He pinned the other boy to the bed, just to keep him from getting away because he, Harry, wanted to know why Malfoy had been avoiding him all day. But instead of asking Malfoy, Harry kissed him. Their clothes vanished, and Harry felt appreciative at the ease of it.  
He woke up a dream-minute later in a very compromising state.  
Breathing hard, he sat up. Ron snored loudly next to him, and Harry checked his watch. It was about an hour before the usual time he would get up, anyway. But the idea that anyone else might get up, that somehow, Ron or Seamus, Dean or Neville might know what had just happened, was too much. Harry went to the bathroom off the dormitory and looked at his reflection. His face was flushed, especially his cheekbones. His hair was even more of a mess than usual. It was no good. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t even sit in the common room. Flustered, he grabbed the Invisibility Cloak, slipped it on, and left. Outside the Fat Lady, he gave himself a mental cuff on the head. He’d forgotten the Marauder’s Map. Oh, well, he decided, he’d done this for two years without the aid of the map. It would be a good bit of practice. But it still made wandering without a destination even more stupid than usual. Harry decided on the Prefect’s bathroom. A bath would feel nice, and would help with the physical signs of his disturbing night. He’d gotten the new password from the Marauder’s Map the week before, so he’d be able to get in, despite not really being allowed.  
Approaching the entrance, he whispered “Ficus” and entered, crossing the room and removing the Invisibility Cloak. A squawk made him jump and spin around. Someone was already taking a bath. Draco Malfoy.  
“What are you doing here?” they asked at the same time.  
“I’m a prefect,” said Malfoy.  
“That wasn’t the question,” said Harry.  
“Couldn’t sleep.” Harry wondered if he was still dreaming. Malfoy was being almost civil to him. “You?”  
Harry’s face burned again. “Fancied a bath,” he muttered. To his astonishment, Malfoy gestured around him.  
“Plenty of room for both of us.”  
Harry didn’t know what to do He found his hands rising of their own accord to remove his shirt, and then his trousers. He stood there in his pants, in front of Draco Malfoy.  
“Something you’re embarrassed about, Potter? Fine, I won’t watch.” Malfoy turned his back dramatically, and Harry slipped off this last article of clothing and got into the water.  
“See?” said Malfoy, turning round again. “Plenty of room. I’m sure we won’t disturb each other. Unless—” and, so softly Harry barely caught it, “that was what you had in mind?” Harry stared at him for a second, sure he must have misheard.  
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked at last.  
“Couldn’t stop thinking. Why did you want a bath?”  
“Disturbing dreams.” Harry ducked his head under the water, hoping to either return his face to its natural color, or to turn the rest of him red with heat as well.  
“How’s your potions essay coming?’ asked Malfoy.  
“Badly. Yours?”  
“So-so. I’m not actually that good at potions. Just average. Snape likes me, is all.”  
Harry found himself drifting toward Malfoy. Their feet accidentally touched. Harry jumped back quickly, looked anywhere but at Malfoy. When he risked a peek, he was surprised to see a lot of the same emotions he was feeling written on Malfoy’s. Apprehension. Fear. Desire.  
Malfoy quickly checked his watch.  
“We should get going, or our housemates will wonder where we are.”  
They got out of the tub, not looking at each other, dried off, and dressed.  
“Do you want help with your Potions essay?” asked Malfoy.  
“Sure,” said Harry, surprised. “Same time tomorrow?’  
“Nah, it’ll be suspicious if we’re missing too often. Day after, since the essay’s due. Astronomy tower.”  
“Shall I pick you up at your common room?” asked Harry, then blushed again. “I mean, ‘cause I have the Invisibility Cloak.”  
“Yeah, all right,” said Malfoy, then frowned. “My housemates would consider it base treachery if I told you where it is.”  
“That’s all right,” replied Harry. “You told me years ago.”  
“Someday I’ll make you explain that statement,” said Malfoy after a minute.  
They paused at the door, neither really wanting to leave.  
“Thoughts keeping you up—of what?” asked Harry suddenly. Malfoy regarded him.  
“Dreams—of what?” Harry swallowed, then whispered,  
“You.” Malfoy nodded.  
“You.” He turned away while his words sank in. “So long, Harry.”  
“See you, Draco.”

Their early-morning Potions study session went surprisingly well. Draco helped Harry remember what he knew about billywig saliva and find out what he didn’t know, and Harry pointed out places where Draco’s organization needed work. They worked companionably, not speaking, except about the essay, until Harry checked his watch  
“Time to be up,” he told the other boy, and they gathered their things. Draco held out one of Harry’s quills, and, in taking it, Harry’s palm brushed Draco’s. Draco grabbed his hand and held it tightly for a full second, the quill between them, before releasing it and letting the quill fall into Harry’s hand.  
“Where’ve you been?” asked Ron when Harry met him in the Great Hall.  
“Got up early to work on my Potions essay,” said Harry truthfully, hoping his answer sounded nonchalant.  
Ron only muttered, “You’re turning into Hermione,” and went back to his bacon.  
Harry didn’t dare make plans to meet Draco for a couple weeks after that. Draco either felt the same, or had no desire to meet Harry again. He certainly seemed his usual snarky self, though they hadn’t spoken. But Harry kept remembering that touch.  
Their opportunity came with the preparations for the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match. The Slytherins had started a round of Weasley Is Our king as the Gryffindors headed back to the common room after dinner, and Harry felt a burning desire to ask Draco why. He scribbled on a piece of parchment, 

You want to get up early tomorrow morning to practice your Wronski Feint before the match.  
HP

He stalked up to the Slytherins’ table and faced Draco, just inches from the other boy.  
“We’ll see who’s King tomorrow, Malfoy,” he spat, grabbing Draco by the front of the robes and dropping the note down them.  
“Bring it on, Potter,” replied Draco with equal vehemence, kicking him lightly in the shin. It barely hurt, but Harry jumped back and released him, growling.  
“Wow, mate,” said Ron, staring at him as he returned, “What was all that about?”  
“I’m just so sick of him,” said Harry, picking the most obvious topic, “going on about your Keeping. He’s just sore because we’re better.”  
“I can stick up for myself, thanks,” said Ron, but not angrily.  
Harry went to bed early that night, telling his housemates he wanted to get up early to warm-up before the match. A few halfheartedly offered to come, but he shook them off, pointing out that as he was Seeker, there really wasn’t anything they could do to help him, and that they should get some sleep.  
Harry’s heart was thumping with anticipation by the time he got down to the Quidditch Pitch, and it had nothing to do with the upcoming game. He mounted his Firebolt and kicked off, flying a few laps around the pitch. After a few minute, he saw a lone figure in green walking onto the pitch. Harry suddenly had a very daring idea. He went into a dive, aiming carefully. The figure below stepped to the side hurriedly, but Harry readjusted. In a second, he pulled out of the dive and came to a standstill within two feet of Draco, who was looking most undignified sprawled on the ground, where he had apparently thrown himself to escape being crashed into.  
“You trying to kill me before the match, Potter, so you won’t have to play me?” asked Draco in annoyance.  
“I wasn’t going to hit you,” protested Harry, pulling the other to his feet, and when Draco snorted, “Hey, give me some credit. Youngest Seeker in a century, remember?”  
“Don’t remind me,” Draco muttered.  
“We going to fly?” Harry asked him.  
“Sure. But can we go somewhere other than the pitch? I don’t want to risk being seen.”  
Harry suggested they fly the grounds, and they set off on foot. When they’d come to a secluded, yet open area, they mounted and kicked off.  
“Why are you nice to me when we’re alone?” asked Harry after a minute.  
“These stolen hours,” replied Draco. “I don’t know whether it’s that they don’t feel real or that they’re the only thing that does.”  
“But you hate me. And my friends.”  
“No, I don’t,” said Draco. Harry stared at him. “Really, I don’t. It’s all an act. A mask I put on. I don’t care that Granger’s parents are Muggles, or that Arthur Weasley’s a nutcase who loves them.” A pause. “But you can’t know how hard my father beat me when I voiced opinions anywhere near those. You can’t know what my housemates did to a half-blood in my year. He had to curse half the fifth and sixth years to gain any respect.”  
‘Your house has a funny idea of what deserves respect,” commented Harry, shaken though he was. The Dursleys had locked him up, starved him, shouted at him, humiliated him, but never had they hit him. Dudley had, of course, but that was different.  
Staring at Draco, Harry realized something. The wind was whipping the blonde’s sleeves back, revealing his wrists, both turned away from Harry, although it made holding the broom awkward. Harry performed a hairpin change in direction, diving under Draco and emerging on the other side, but Draco was too quick for him, and the wrists were instantly turned the other way. Draco gave him a shocked look. Harry returned a raise of the eyebrows. He pulled into a dive and landed, then waited. After a minute, Draco did too. He looked apprehensive now.  
“Show me your hands,” said Harry, gently but firmly. Draco’s expression turned scared. A pause. Then, ever so slowly, he held both wrists out to Harry, who gently peeled back the sleeves. Scars crisscrossed Draco’s wrists. Some were clearly long healed, others couldn’t be more than a week old.  
Harry was about to ask why Draco hadn’t healed the cuts by magic, then stopped himself. If Draco had wanted the cuts healed, he wouldn’t have made them.  
Instead, he closed his eyes.  
“Why?” he whispered. Talk to me.”  
“My father hits me, my mother watches, and I have no real friends,” Draco answered bitterly. “What do I have?’  
“You have me,” said Harry fiercely, opening his eyes. “From now on, you always have me.”  
“I don’t want your pity,” said Draco, not looking at him.  
“Not pity,” said Harry, running his thumbs over the scars. Pity may have been part of the swell of emotion rising in him, but it was by no means dominating. “Oh, Draco…”  
Apparently confused by Harry’s tone, Draco looked up. In one fluid motion, Harry had dropped his wrists, wrapped one arm around his back, wrapped the other round his head, and kissed him.


End file.
